


Windows

by BlueMonkey



Category: Warcraft (2016)
Genre: I AM SORRY, I once vowed never to write pwp, M/M, Modern AU, Neighbours, Porn, Strangers, Voyeurism, basically porn in Chinatown, it is porn, mild filth, wholly unrelated to the OS, yet here I AM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 07:44:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8154511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueMonkey/pseuds/BlueMonkey
Summary: It is late when the music pulses like a slow beat, a breath of life that crawls under Khadgar's skin and moves his fingers.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Oops. My hand slipped.

Music weaves through the small apartment when Khadgar falls down on his couch and watches the single light above the coffee table. The window is slightly ajar, letting in a cool late December breeze that feels like winter but lacks the bite. And it would not make a difference, for his skin is flushed with dancing in what little space he has.

The light on the other side of the alley isn't on. When Khadgar looks over, he sees the spires of the fire escape, the cherry red of the windowsill and the street lamp a few floors lower. New York's ever present soundtrack is a constant hum in the background. He knows that his neighbour is there, somewhere, having watched as he sinuously moved to the beat with a cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes half closed, all along pretending to be alone. Khadgar knows he is there, because his neighbour always is.

It started out innocently enough. A new neighbour across the street, in the apartment that has been empty for months. And him, making a fool of himself around his own place in the middle of making easy dinner with some eighties' music on the radio that begged to be moved to. At a few days away from August, the city had been sweltering hot and Khadgar so used to the privacy of having nobody on the opposite side of the street to leave his shirt open and wear only his boxers without nary a thought. Of course, that had to be the night he met his new neighbour, looking at him with a raised brow from the usually unoccupied window.

And oh, his new neighbour is something.

It is late when the music pulses like a slow beat, a breath of life that crawls under Khadgar's skin and moves his fingers. Even on the couch, his energy is still surging. Hands brush through his hair in self-worship, imagining how someone might be watching him, and his hips won't stay still. He mouths unspoken lyrics to what is definitely no longer quite an innocent song. But it is still a new thing when this weekly ritual to drive the other man insane as he pretends to be lost in music crosses a boundary tonight, his hand crawling along his waistband, only to slip under it.

Eyes flick up at the window. Once or twice, he thinks he can see movement. Like that time when Khadgar came home half drunk at four in the morning, had switched on the radio because he wasn't thinking, and had come face to face with a confused, disgruntled neighbour five minutes later as the man turned on the light to see what the racket was about, only to stare at Khadgar half undressed as Khadgar stared back at him, and had promptly switched the lights back off. Not closed the curtains.

It is driving him mad. Lothar—which is the only word on his neighbour's mailbox, and Khadgar is not a stalker but he likes knowing it, for it gives him a name to think of—never has his lights at the same time, which leaves him with nothing but his own faint reflection.

It is that reflection which he looks at now as he wraps a hand around himself. Khadgar's head slowly falls back. He never misses a beat, but then the song is slow, sensuous, _perfect_. Made for this.

There is something greatly exciting about it. He is not the type to do things like these so irrationally, but it is the thought that won't leave him alone. Lothar could be there. He could be asleep, certainly. It is late, after all. But if he is not…

Khadgar licks his lip. Lothar must by now be well aware of the effect he has. The man is not without blame, himself. Lothar has provoked him several times, walking around shirtless when Khadgar really had to study, or giving him a knowing grin on the few occasions where they bumped into each other on the market right outside the window.

Once, and Khadgar remembers it well, Lothar has literally looked him over top to bottom in the streets before turning around and whistling a song under his breath.

They have never said anything to each other, Khadgar thinks as his hips thrust up once, sharply, and a moan escapes him, perfectly timed with the lull of the song. He doesn't know the sound of his voice. What madness indeed, to think of how the man would crawl on top of him and bat his hand away so that he may envelop him with a mouth and the faintest tickle of a beard against his sack.

What madness, Khadgar thinks when the music picks up and he watches his own reflection in the mirror across the street, so dirty—so unlike himself.

He comes with streaks of white across his chest, his lips parted and looking like a veritable Santa Teresa in Estasi. Wrecked. Broken.

The music dies off and the lights dim. His neighbour is not in the living room that lies behind the window. The couch is empty tonight, the television off. Khadgar looks up at his ceiling for minutes that blend into clusters of tens. He feels hollow. He should not—oh, he has crossed a line which was not meant to be crossed, a last boundary that should have kept standing. His punishment is the regret that stains his bliss.

But fallen as he is, he brings his fingers to his lips and smiles. Lothar is untouchable across the few yards between them, but in his thoughts, he is never further than a few inches away. In thoughts, Lothar is his.

He curls up in the corner of the couch and flicks on the light, ready to read a few pages of the book on his table before retreating to his bed for the night. Khadgar's body still shakes, his eyes still blown. He has an affliction, he acknowledges. He should go out some time, let Garona drag him into the city, get laid. It is not healthy t—

The doorbell roughly jostles him awake.

“Hello?” he stammers over the intercom, five seconds later. His voice betrays him—Khadgar is so very fucked.

“I saw you,” says a rough voice.

Khadgar promptly hangs up.

He stares at the horn for a long time. His hands are shaking like a man with a nervous habit. But Khadgar is afraid, now that his debauchery has been exposed to the world. Surely this will be brought to a committee. Discretely, perhaps, but nevertheless there will be consequences. You don't do what he just did and get away with it. It is sexual intimidation. It is deviant. It is an act of aggression, wrapped in the delicate ribbon of seduction.

The intercom rings again.

“Go away,” Khadgar hisses.

All the while, his traitorous thoughts imagine what would happen if he said something else. He feels himself getting hard again. It is not even despicable. Need and attraction render his stray thoughts uneducated.

“And then what about me?” asks the impossible voice. It is poised and poison at the same time, a siren's call; a promise of something unspoken. “Very well. If I must handle it myself.”

Khadgar rams the button of the front door. And wishes he could die right there and then. He hates himself as much as he feels every rustle of his open shirt against his skin, the cool draft that is giving him goosebumps. His body is ready even when his mind is not.

And so what his guest will find as the elevator comes up to the fifth floor is an open door and Khadgar the embodiment of mortal sin, wrapped in the package of a creature who was made to devour, but only capable of weakly supporting himself against the door frame.

What he sees is someone who wants him just as badly.

“…Coffee?” he asks hoarsely instead.

But seven heavens and nine hells can't keep Khadgar from responding, the moment Lothar pushes him back into his apartment, turns to shove him up against the door while closing it with a bang that is going to wake up several of the neighbours. Yes. This is his nature. This is what he was designed for. Khadgar exposes his neck. Offers.

His hips move to a song that is not there. Mouths explore mouths in what is a frenzy only to be quenched in release.

Lothar's hands are on his naked sides then. His shirt comes off. Khadgar knows nothing of this man, except that he needs him with every part of his being. He allows the stranger to tug down his underwear, fall to his knees, and take him in his mouth without a word, while he does his best to keep himself from crumbling then and there. His thoughts are all over the place.

“You taste good,” breathes the man around his cock in worship, before he takes him deeper.

Khadgar gives a startled cry.

“Tell me what you want.” The man keeps talking, though he does not stop. Even when he pulls away to look up at him with that dangerously mischievous glint in his eyes, Lothar's lips are against Khadgar's cock. His neighbour, Khadgar comes to find, is as much a tease as he is. The difference is that Lothar actually makes good on it. “Me in you?” his low voice suggests. “I will make you feel so good.”

And Khadgar nearly comes from the sound of that alone. His hands draw Lothar's mouth away. When they look at each other, their eyes are both black as night.

“Come.”

Lothar nods.

The coat rack falls, laden with too many coats and woollen scarves, when they fall into it on their stumble through the flat. Khadgar laughs and claims Lothar's lips. His hands are sloppy and his movements feverish. They forego the introductions or the obligatory tour of the place when he drags him unceremoniously onto the small space that is the couch, pushes him down and sits atop him.

But his neighbour has him on his back, legs around hips, in an instant. And the mouth returns.

Khadgar's back arches up, one hand in impossibly thick hair. “Yes,” he laughs breathlessly, " _yes_."

“You want it?”

Frantic is the manner in which he nods; it fizzles into a whimper when a large hand pushes between his legs, wet with spit, and unapologetically enters him with one finger going in until the knuckle. Lothar bites and laps at his lower abdomen, not any better off. No, Khadgar can't think of wanting anything more.

He fidgets around for oil or condoms. A book falls from his night stand. He doesn't care about taking the bite off from dry friction or safety, not really; they are rather an indication of how far he wants his neighbour to take it.

As if his legs spread wide or the wanton sounds that spill from his lips are nothing to go by.

He is turned onto his stomach; a belt comes undone behind his upturned ass. Then, wet and slick, he is properly spread. Two fingers scissor into him without mercy. There is lube dripping down between his legs, and he finds that he doesn't care, because Khadgar feels like he might never be sated.

He bites back a cry into a pillow when the man takes away his fingers and shows him how greatly Khadgar has truly underestimated him. Breaths come shallow when they aren't knocked out of him; the couch hits the thin drywall meant to separate his pathetic living room from the rest of the place.

“You like that?” Lothar asks with his hand pressing Khadgar's chest down into the faux leather. He isn't laughing, and neither is it as derogatory as he could have made it. Instead, Khadgar thinks he can hear the worship; a held back testament of how long they have both longed for this, dancing around each other from their windows across the alley.

He nods, barely, and supports his weight on his elbows. He is immediately shoved forward and back with his cheek flat against the surface.

It is too much, and yet he never wants it to end. His loins are burning. “So good,” he breathes to himself, as if he can't quite imagine it, himself. " _God_."

It is when Lothar covers him with his still mostly clothed chest, his coarse hand gripping him as he jerks him off tortuously slowly and bites his shoulder, that Khadgar can't take any more. He comes with a cry, his couch instantly a mess, and can't do anything while he lies there trapped and Lothar extracts his own pleasure from his spent body.

He can feel himself clamping down around him; every touch becomes far too sensitive, until Khadgar is practically in tears. His hands grasp at the pillow, his thighs shaking.

Then falls Lothar.

They lie there for long minutes. It could be awkward, as they still aren't looking at each other, but the man who has enjoyed subduing him now uses gentle touches to brush through his hair. “So beautiful,” he whispers. “You have no idea, do you?”

There is the sound of a buckle being put on. Lothar buttons up his shirt as he kisses Khadgar's neck. Khadgar wants to turn around and look at him, if only to figure out what this has meant. But then the couch dips, and his neighbour is gone.

He is once again alone in his apartment.

It is too quiet.

The shower is just him going through the motions; cleaning the couch and ignoring the mess that is the seams is a chore that ends halfway with him deciding to put a blanket on top of it for now instead.

At a few minutes before two in the morning, when he gives up on being able to sleep, he switches on some music in the dark.

In the room across the street, a light comes on.


End file.
